


Catching a Cliché

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2019-01-23 13:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12508660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: [Fic Exchange '07] And there was shadow, smudging their jawlines -- her high cheekbones; his aristocratic nose - into the depth of the sky. He could only crave for their warmth, or even, he thought rather sullenly, that of the Half-blood filth and blood traitor gallivanting around in the bushes beside him.





	Catching a Cliché

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Merry Christmas, Raquel (Keshi)!**

**Catching a Cliché**

She was _alive_ – his initial impression of her. All red hair, freckles and spinning. He saw their family: the father, the mother, and two girls. Both laughing, eyes crinkled at the corners and clean dresses, but it was the red head who had the spirit, the curiosity. He couldn’t help but laugh at the odd faces she pulled as she walked along, and she had seen him with those green eyes of hers. He hadn’t wanted her pity and she hadn’t offered it. 

It had been good while it lasted. In secret, most of the time (his father was hardly accommodating – he believed “playing” too frivolous a pastime for even children). Lily had often voiced her opinion on that matter, but always complied quietly – she hardly wanted to get him into trouble.

He always thought that it would’ve been better – _she_ was better: worldly and growing into her looks – when they were older. 

Once upon a dream, he had seen her: his cliché, his childhood love. Her eyes were miasmic glittering pools dancing with mirth. She was spinning, her crimson hair braided—a rose garland placed aptly upon the head of a whimsical forest nymph. 

His mood soured instantly at the thought – trust Potter to ruin any romantic illusions he had of her. A nymph she was; free-willed, sprite-like and hopelessly enamored with the forest: its epic canopy, a mass of emeralds, jades, golden, with scarlet leaves burning through one’s vision—a typical idealistic setting. Of course, “hopelessly enamored” with the forest also encompassed love for its many creatures—a nymph she was; she loved a bloody ''deer'', for Heaven’s sake. 

He still could not fathom how on earth that deer (not a stag—stags demanded respect, which wasn’t something he was inclined to do, especially when he’d rather tear the man to shreds, even if James Bloody Potter had saved his life) had managed to get the girl of his dreams. He was under the impression that Lily Evans would never fall for a git like James Potter, but it was a major misconception on his part. It was just as Potter said it should be, and Severus Snape was told to sod off, thank you very much. 

It was just as well that he was asked to go to the island of Sumatra, in Indonesia, where locals had a mysterious plague, always unleashed in the dark of the night when people were utterly oblivious. The magical community had, of course, captured and culled a Lethifold; one man had even died in the effort, as well as several Muggles. Unfortunate for them, of course, but it was rather to his own advantage—certain parts of the Lethifold would be immensely powerful if extracted properly, worth ducats on the black market. Severus Snape was, naturally, the man for the job. 

The rest, as they say, was history; the result of an unfortunate coincidence, or, rather, the unfortunate seduction of power that had resulted in these dire circumstances—on his behalf, anyway. 

*

Six o’clock: twilight blanketed the sky, showering any and every surface with light pink hues, dashes of fuchsia; orange seeped through the edges upon the horizon. 

The idyllic sight was ruined by a hefty trunk being levitated precariously by a wand that no eye could see. A woman no older than eighteen stood beside it, her red hair in disarray, with a facial expression that could only be possessed by one who has been chased by a trunk playing Dean Martin's "Sway" for the last hour: slight befuddlement, utter despair and complete fury directed at one of the more gorgeous voices of the century. 

Short of blowing the trunk up —which she was inclined to do, ignoring the fact that it possessed all her belongings for their trip to Bali—there was really nothing that she could logically do. Though the removal of one Sirius Black’s, uh... prized possessions (wink wink, nudge nudge) the urge to inquire (very sweetly indeed) “How you doin’ ” once she had proceeded to stop him procreating; et corny jokes—her mind was rather immature at times like these—seemed entirely plausible. It was the only thing to do; she had James Potter, and with James Potter came Sirius Black, no questions asked.

“A surprise”, James had said. “A holiday – just for the two of us.” Telling her to pack for "warm and sultry weather... say, a beach" although the closest beach was Cornwall and Cornwall was Not Tropical—what was he thinking? She even considered all the insane things he might’ve planned, but the limit was her imagination – she was the thinker, while his spirit was embodied by his gorgeous hazel eyes – dreamer’s eyes. Although he, in that charmer’s voice, asserted that he was never insane, but “witty—always incredibly witty and just a touch adventurous”. She’d fall for it—that voice always made her swoon a little; he knew it and so did she, but she’d never hasten to admit it.

She had laid out her clothes on her bed; packed; unpacked (is a third pair of shoes really necessary?) and repacked and placed her trunk neatly on the driveway. It was then that the horror began; waiting was never a problem when Sirius Black was concerned – he was certainly amusing. Nonetheless, when James had ordered Sirius to “keep her occupied” until he arrived, he undoubtedly took it as an opportunity to test his latest pranks.

And he was finally here. 

He slipped his callused palm into her hands—the calluses were starting to disappear from their Hogwarts days already, although it had barely been a month. They’d already dedicated their lives to something extraordinary, but she sometimes wondered if he missed Quidditch; it was practically his first love, and everyone knows that first loves are the hardest to forget. Perhaps he’d reminisce about it to their grandchildren, how their Pop, James Potter, had— 

She was getting ahead of herself now; life was spontaneous if one was an optimist. It was more than dog-eat-dog now and she hated to admit it, but they were leading an uncertain life. They had chosen their paths, but it was perhaps what made everything so irresolute; she might be an “independent” woman, not the Susie-homemaker kind her mother and sister were (there was no bitterness here, as she loved them dearly), but there was this sense of comfort when in his presence. Along with the overwhelming urge she had to ravish him, of course. 

Her idle thinking had distracted her—unknowingly, a blindfold had been slipped over her eyes. She could feel his victorious laughter as he pressed his lips into her silky hair. 

“James, we could be _attacked_ , take the blindfold—" her loud whisper was cut off by the sudden movement of his lips against hers. He smiled; she was so easily distracted. Soon enough, they were in the air, wind sweeping through their hair, yet she was hardly cold.

Here, pressed against his chest (his cologne was rather intoxicating—she was dizzy already), she could feel his jittery bones. It would've been disconcerting if she hadn't known it was suppressed exuberance. 

They landed gently, the aroma of freshly cut grass thick around them; anticipation hung in the humid air—so humid that it could almost form small droplets of water on their pale skin, their hopeful faces and drip off their thick lashes and into their idealistic eyes. 

She could feel herself sinking, with sand swimming between her toes and around her ankles and wondered where on earth he'd brought her. He led her a little way before slipping the blindfold off. 

She wasn't quite sure what to call it. It wasn't really a tepee, nor was it a cottage, but it was a small structure, relatively well-built – as well-built as any structure made out of leaves, sticks and stones could be. It was adorable, she supposed, if she were into the whole Cowboys-and-Indians phase when she was younger, but that was an Americanism she had been only too happy to discard. It had its own charm, their...humble abode. 

He was standing in front of her, hands clasped, exuding all the innocence in the word. The realisation that he had built this in some instance of boyish bravery hit her and she couldn't help but catch his lips and kiss him gently. With or without Sirius, Remus and Peter was irrelevant. After all, Peter was more likely to do “helpful” little things like distract Lily herself or get glasses of water for the rest; Sirius and Remus may have contributed if they weren't so caught up in each other – unrealised, of course, but there was undoubtedly something there. 

They sat down – that is to say, he stumbled and landed head-first in the sand. For all his worldly charm and swagger, he was quite the novice when it came to women. No, not women, he had them swooning, but he was prone to tripping over his own feet when it came to her. 

A faint buzzing sound, and a tiny model airplane flew in (parcel included) and landed rather awkwardly beside him. Hands shaking, he lifted a pie out, pre-sliced; she thought it for the best—their future in cake cutting was rather dismal indeed. Slice upon slice disappeared – his initial nervousness transformed into a state of mild panic and bewilderment; the Pie Look was absent from his face. (Yes, the pie look. It was a cross between immense satisfaction and toothache, and reveling in one's exuberance at a chocolate shop. She had coined the term; he was mighty fond of his pie.)

Then it hit her: he was _trying to propose_.

He was never too good at hiding things, not from her, especially when his Great Grandmother's wedding ring was absent from his usual necklace. It obviously wasn’t in his slices, which could only mean she had swallowed the blasted thing! As nice as Mrs. Potter may be, she would hardly be sympathetic when her son’s girlfriend had digested a family heirloom.

The pie should've had a label, for heaven's sake! Caution: _antique objects within - may cause indigestion..._

Running a hand through his hair (she noted once again that it hardly hastened to fall flat) he explained quite nervously that Sirius and Remus had been given the ring.

Her jaw dropped “Who in their right minds would leave Sirius Black in charge of their _Great Grandmother's ri_ -?” 

“I didn’t give it to Sirius – I value my life too much. If Mum found out I had lost it…” James began, affronted. “Remus was a much better option, but these days, they might as well be one person, they _are_ joined at the hip... Although, snogging oneself isn't exactly desirable...” He trailed off idly.

(The pie hadn't had the ring, after all – merely a substitute that was “easily replaceable”. She concluded that killing him for nearly causing her a heart attack was not the way to go, especially when he was _trying to propose_.) 

Just when he was at his wit's end, a small buzzing noise indicated the arrival of a little friend that, this time, crashed into James' nose. (Growls of "I'm going to Avada Kedavra those sods as soon as I can" may or may not have been apparent.) 

She had her cliché – falling in love with her “worst enemy”. She had that gasping moment, falling into his arms after he’d pushed her against that tree and kissed her that starlit night, the kiss to end all kisses. She had her knight in shining armor kneeling in front of her, wordlessly offering her completion and she could only press her cool hand to his palm, entwining their fingers – it was enough for them.

Heck, they were barely out of school, but the time of bright, bright eyes and fumbling hands and kisses had long gone. 

He was no longer a boy in man's clothes. He might be clumsy – all arms, legs and wayward lankiness – but she could see it fading away in steely glances and straightened shoulders. She wasn't quite sure when it'd happened, yet it had happened, regardless; they'd lost their naivety with a careless slip of the hand. 

Yes, he was a man, and he was hers alone. 

 

*

 

And there was shadow, smudging their jaw lines—her high cheekbones; his aristocratic nose—into the depth of the sky. Her hand slipped into his hand—they were infinitesimal; they were together. He could only crave for their warmth, or even, he thought rather sullenly, that of the Half-blood filth and blood traitor gallivanting around in the bushes beside him. 

He's there, of course – the situation is predictable, infuriatingly so, he thinks rather dourly. His own cliché is hardly one of fairytales. He's realised that. 


End file.
